


Intellectual Attraction

by oppisum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppisum/pseuds/oppisum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the subject of Sherlock’s virginity comes up, a conversation about a the way he‘s attracted to people ensues. He confides in John his innermost thoughts with some surprising consequences.  Post SiB</p>
<p> </p>
<p><i>“To answer your question, it’s not that I have no desire to have an intimate relationship, but more like I’ve learned not to desire such things over time. Why should I put myself in the hands of someone I cannot understand and who can’t understand me?”</i><br/> <br/><i>“How so? Understanding isn’t everything in a relationship, you know.”</i></p>
<p>
  <i>“You know more about me than any other living person, but you still don’t truly understand me. For instance, I doubt you understand me when I say that my initial attractions are intellectual in nature instead of physical.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intellectual Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so honestly, I just love writing Sherlock because he’s one of the few characters that I’m allowed to make very wordy.

“John, what would you say my most distinctive quality is?”

Looking up from his book, John turned in his armchair to get a good look at the tall man sprawled horizontally on the sofa, an arm thrown over his face to cover his eyes. “I don’t know,” the sandy-haired man said in a tone oozing sarcasm. “Perhaps your ability to determine a person’s entire life history based on the state of their shirt cuffs.”

“It’s over exaggerations like that are the motivation behind roughly twenty-three percent of London’s recent obsession with my life thanks to that damnable blog of yours.”

“You’re ego loves it and you know it. So why do you ask?”

“The motivation for the question is inconsequential given your answer.”

“’Given my answer?’ What were you expecting me to say, that your most distinctive quality is your intense dislike of gruyere cheese?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said, surprising his friend.

“Moriarty?” John repeated incredulously.

“Yes, and for the love of god, quit repeating everything I say.”

“But what does Moriarty have to do with anything?”

“He called me ‘The Virgin.’ Mycroft at least got ‘Ice Man.’ That’s not too bad. But how, out of all my – quite frankly – remarkable skills, do I get branded as The Virgin?”

John shifted slightly in his chair, flustered by the direction the conversation had taken. “Well, my guess is because it’s such a rare quality for a thirty-four year-old man in this day and age.”

“But why should it matter? In fact, a little over a century ago it was considered grossly improper for an unmarried man to be anything but.”

“I think the thing is that your, er, lack of romantic experience is not because of religious or moral reasons.” The doctor paused. “Is it?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock scoffed. “You know I don’t put any stock in that rubbish.”

Hesitantly, John asked, “So, are you, then?”

“Am I what?” the detective snapped irritatedly.

“Are you really still, you know, a virgin.”

With a noise resembling something between a growl and a sigh, Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach. “Really John, even you? Granted, I’m sure your readers would love to know whether or not Moriarty’s little pet name for me was actually accurate.”

“I never printed it.”

“What?”

“On my blog. I never wrote about Moriarty’s names for you and Mycroft. That’s your personal business.”

“Oh, and my ignorance of the solar system isn’t?”

“That was different, just an amusing fact with absolutely no real bearing on your life. Something like this is no one else’s concern. I’m asking you as your friend, not your blogger. I want you to know that you can talk to me.”

The silence that followed stretched for so long that John was beginning to think that the other man had fallen asleep, but finally, after nearly fifteen minutes Sherlock said, “Yes, I am,” his voice muffled as he spoke into the side of the couch.

John remained silent, unsure of how to respond. At last he said, “Because you have no interest in relationships?”

Abruptly, the lean detective sat up and stared directly at his companion. “Is that what you think, that I don’t care to have someone I can be close with? Or is it that you think me incapable of such emotions? After all, I’m the one who called me a high-functioning sociopath.”

This had crossed John’s mind before. Several times, in fact. He recalled from college that severe cases of sociopathy were characterized by an inability to love or form real, meaningful attachments, where as in milder cases ‘sociopath’ was just another term for someone who was egotistical, manipulative, and mildly amoral all rolled into one. “Oh, I know that you’re a sociopath, Sherlock. I just don’t know how much of one.”

“Tell me, Dr. Watson, how long have you been worried that I might actually be incapable of love and attachment, that out friendship is merely a sham I use to accomplish an end?”

“I didn’t–”

“Oh, don’t lie. I know you’ve at least thought about it, especially given your medical knowledge. There’s no doubt that you had to take basic psychology and sociology classes.”

“Okay, yes, I did think about that, but I dismissed it!”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve seen you show real compassion! A true person with antisocial personality disorder wouldn’t have apologized to Molly Hooper at that Christmas party when he had nothing to gain from it!”

It wasn’t until the silence fell that they both realized they’d been shouting.

“See now,” said the curly-haired man with a slight smile. “It seems you just answered your own question. Not the one you asked, mind you, but the one you’ve wanted to ask since shortly after the inception of our friendship. Yes, John, our friendship is important to me. As a matter of fact, I can’t imagine what I’d do without it anymore. Well, I can, but I don’t particularly like to unless you’ve left the radio on the pop station again.

“And to answer your question, it’s not that I have no desire to have an intimate relationship, but more like I’ve learned not to desire such things over time. Why should I put myself in the hands of someone I cannot understand and who can’t understand me?”

“How so? Understanding isn’t everything in a relationship, you know,” John said, still somewhat amazed at the fact that Sherlock Holmes was actually opening up to him and talking about personal matters. Usually personal discussions between them were completely one-sided.

“You know more about me than any other living person – except perhaps Mycroft, but he doesn’t count because he’s just as sociopathic as I am, perhaps more so – but you still don’t truly understand me. For instance, I doubt you understand me when I say that my attractions are intellectual in nature instead of physical. What do you think I mean by that?”

“That you only find intelligence attractive?”

“Wrong. Completely wrong. Stupidity is by no means an appealing quality in a person, but I also find plenty of faults in a hypothetical relationship with someone of my own intelligence. To date someone at my level of intelligence and perceptiveness would be utterly disastrous, nothing more than a constant game of chess.” He winced. “No, what I mean by saying that is that while you and most other normal people would be attracted to someone first by what you perceive as physically desirable and then become attracted to them on an intellectual level, I first find myself intellectually attracted to someone and only then – and only rarely at that – do I find myself physically attracted to them.”

John found himself enthralled by what the other man was saying. He has always assumed that even if his friend could indeed form meaningful attachments, he was still a completely asexual being.

The detective continued, “I don’t want you to walk away from this conversation thinking that even an intellectual attraction on my part is common. There have only been two people in recent years that I’ve truly found myself attracted to. Besides, even if my attractions were as frequent as those of normal people, I would still refrain from becoming intimately involved with others.”

“Why?”

“Think, John. What person would really desire me for my personality and not my newfound fame or my appearance – I’ve been told that I’m well above average in physical attractiveness. I am a self-admitted high-functioning sociopath. It is outside of my abilities to ever understand another person’s emotions on more than a rational level – except, perhaps, my brother, who is in most respects my equal. I can care for another person; I can occasionally feel pity for them; I could probably even love them in my own atypical way; but I could never really understand their motivations on an emotional level. Rational and emotional are two very different levels of understanding. Do you know the definition of a sociopath, Watson?”

“Antisocial personality disorder isn’t a one-size-fits-all condition, but it’s usually characterized by abnormal moral conduct, an egocentric personality, and an inability to empathise.”

“Exactly. I feel more or less the same emotions as an ordinary person, but they’re often called up by very different things. In my case, this is why I cannot empathise much of the time. I see no point in feeling pity for someone when I can be of more use to them by saving their life. Also, I find blatant stupidity highly angering, whereas, if what’s on the telly is anything to go by, common folk find it comical. I don’t understand.” He raised his palms in a gesture of confusion.

“But just because you don’t completely understand someone, that doesn’t mean that you can’t care for them , feel affection for them, hell, even fall in love with them,” John protested.

“I can, but they most likely could not. Just as much as I don’t understand people, they don’t understand me. And even if they could, it’s unlikely that they could tolerate me for any extended period of time. You know the eccentricities of my personal habits.”

Frowning, John said, “You’re not that bad.”

“I leave dismembered body parts in our fridge; I _am_ that bad. You’re just used to it. I’m very well aware that my habits would be exceedingly annoying to most people, especially considering that most of them are annoying to you. You’re just one of the few people who can tolerate me for long periods of time on end.”

“Believe it or not, Sherlock, I do more than tolerate you. I actually enjoy having you around. I know, it surprises me too.”

“I do appreciate that, John, but I doubt there is another person in this world who could enjoy my company as you do. But it’s more than that. Funnily, sociopaths are notoriously difficult people to be in relationships with due to their inability to learn from mistakes. I learn from my mistakes better than most, but it’s still not one of my strong suits.”

“This is all… very complicated.”

“Precisely. And that, my dear Watson, is why I don’t bother with it. I merely ignore the attraction I feel for a person that would probably be uncomfortable with it and unlikely to return my affection on a romantic level.”

John raised his eyebrows. “There’s someone you fancy right now?”

“Maybe.” For the first time in the course of their conversation, the detective actually looked uncomfortable.

“Do I know who she is?”

“She?”

“I-I just assumed..”

“That’s another thing about intellectual attraction; it has no regard for gender or physical appearance.”

Faltering for a second, John said, “Do I get to hear who it is, then?”

“No!” the curly-haired man said with uncharacteristic force.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before the detective finally burst out, “Do you really not know who it is? It seems frightfully obvious to me.”

“I don’t know, Lestrade?”

“Lestrade?!” Sherlock asked incredulously. “The only thing that man has going for his is that he knows when he needs my help.”

“If it’s not Lestrade, then who?”

More silence.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sherlock said, “Look, John, it’s better for both of us if you don’t know.”

“I would think that you would’ve known by now that I’m not shallow enough to be bothered by the fact that you like men, even if it’s one of one of our mutual friends.”

“You’re my only friend; everyone else is just acquaintances that I see periodically,” he said matter-of-factly.

Setting his book aside, the sandy-haired man stood and moved to sit on the couch next to his friend. “You can trust me with anything, you know.” He laid a hand on the taller man’s shoulder.

“I know I can; that’s why I don’t want to tell you.”

“That makes no since what so ever.”

“I don’t expect it to make sense to you, especially considering you can’t even figure out who it is.”

“You are infuriating, you know that,” John said, but his bright smile said otherwise.

The detective sucked in an audible breath, and John saw something that made him do a double take. Even in such a relatively well lit room, Sherlock’s eyes were dilating. John ran quickly through the list of things that could do that. Drugs, obviously, but Sherlock had kicked his cocaine habit long ago. Poison could also do it, but that seemed unlikely considering they weren’t currently on a case and he couldn’t recall Sherlock provoking anyone that badly in the past week. Mydriatics didn’t make sense considering his eyesight was perfect. That left… arousal.

Unwillingly, John’s eyebrows shot up, and Sherlock sighed. “Sometimes you’re more perceptive than I give you credit for, John. It might have taken you long enough, but it seems you finally put the pieces together.”

“It’s me, then?” he asked, his voice a couple octaves above normal. “The person you’re attracted to is me?”

“Yes, and if it’s more convenient for you, just forget that you ever realized it. I’m not a man ruled by my emotions, so my feelings will in no way effect out working relationship or our friendship.”

“Just like that? ‘Oh, by the way, I fancy you, but pretend you never heard that.’”

“It hasn’t affected our relationship for the past three months, two weeks, and four days since I became aware of my attraction, so why should it make a difference now? Your dating history makes it perfectly clear which gender you prefer. Which girlfriend was it that just dumped you, the sixth since you moved in?”

“Fifth. And did I just hear you, Mister Never-Jump-To-Conclusions-Or-You’ll-Start-Letting-Biases-Not-Founded-On-Fact-Cloud-Your-Judgement, jump to a conclusion?“

“It’s not jumping to conclusions when it’s founded on sound observation. You have dated five women since we moved in together, shagged two of them, and never once expressed any interest in men.”

“Okay, one, how the blazes did you know I shagged Beth and Sarah? And two, if you know that much, I would guess that you know I turned down Liz and Cathleen.”

“I knew because you came back to the apartment smelling like sex. I might be inexperienced in that area, but I’m not that naïve. I recognize your normal smell, John, and that defiantly wasn’t it. Also, yes, I was aware that you turned down those other two. That was why the one with the big ears dumped you. She assumed that you were shying away from sex with her because you were preoccupied with me.”

“Well, she was right.”

“Of cour- Wait, what?”

“She was right. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with her when there was someone else that I had… feelings for.”

“But- How? You’re not gay.”

“No, but I never said I was straight either.”

“Bisexual. God, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you were too consumed with trying to find reasons why I wouldn’t like you. I’ve known for quite some time that I swung both ways, but I never bothered with blokes because it was more trouble than it was worth until now.”

“It could very well be argued that I’m more trouble than I’m worth in terms of a relationship.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you may be a bloody pain in my ass, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sherlock, who had been perched on the edge of his seat, leaned back now, stunned by the turn in events. Looking at his flatmate, he asked quietly, “Do you really want to try this? Us, I mean, because it’s absolutely mad on a total of thirty-seven different levels.”

In response, John leaned over and kissed the other man briefly on the mouth. He could sense Sherlock’s whole body tense up at the contact, and he pulled away quickly, afraid that he’d done something wrong. “Too much?”

“No, not at all. It’s just… I’ve never been properly kissed before.”

“Never?”

“Never, but I wouldn’t mind giving it a go,” Sherlock said, smiling his lopsided smile.

Hesitantly, John placed a hand on the detective’s cheek and leaned in, gently pressing their lips together. Again, taller man tensed, but this time he forced himself to relax, letting his hand rest on the doctor’s waist. The kiss was soft and slow, like waves lapping at the shoreline. Sherlock couldn’t help but be amazed at how pleasant of a sensation it was. He’d always imagined kissing to be something very sloppy and gross, not slow and gentle. Then again, it probably would gross him out if it were with anyone besides John.

He was just starting to become accustomed to it when he felt something slide softly against his lower lip. A low gasp escaped his throat, and the hand on his cheek moved to twine its fingers into his dark curls. Tentatively, Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed his tongue to brush lightly against John’s. The new sensation sent tingles of pleasure down his spine to settle in the pit of his stomach. Almost instinctively, his arm around John’s waist tightened to bring the doctor closer. The sandy-haired man’s free hand came up to clutch the other man’s purple shirt, the soft fabric wrinkling under his touch.

After what felt like both an eternity and a millisecond, the pair broke apart, both men’s breath coming at uneven intervals. John stared silently into silver-blue eyes and was completely caught off guard when the taller man took advantage of their rather precarious position on the edge of the couch and pulled them down so that John’s head rested on his chest, both arms now wrapped around the smaller man’s waist. “What–”

John was cut off as Sherlock said, “You know, I normally can’t stand being touched. True, I have no concept of personal space, but I don’t _actually_ like physical contact. You’re the first person I’ve ever truly enjoyed having close to me or gone out of my way to make contact with.”

“So Mycroft wasn’t crazy? He was joking one day about how much you touched my shoulder.”

“Of all the things my dear, dear brother is, crazy is not one of them.”

They lapsed into silence for the final time that night, both eventually falling into a fitful sleep. Never mind that the morning would bring Mrs. Hudson’s squeal of delighted surprise when she escorted Lestrade up to their flat, who would in turn groan in defeat having lost a bet with Mycroft – It seems that the two had met some weeks ago at a crime scene and quickly established an amicable friendship. No, for the moment they were perfectly content with dozing together on a couch that was far too small for one full-grown man, much less two.


End file.
